


West Eros High

by openmouthwideeye



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-12 00:51:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 14,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1179957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/openmouthwideeye/pseuds/openmouthwideeye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After one fateful sleepover, Brienne Tarth is thrust into a world of mean girls, meddlesome mothers, and teammates who are too attractive for their own good. Too bad no one told West Eros that she'd rather play hockey in peace.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. giggling again for no reason (it started with a whisper)

**Author's Note:**

> Here it is. All in one place and revised ~~and an epilogue still to come~~.
> 
> Let it begin.

                                                        

                                                                                                        Prologue

Brienne was wedged uncomfortably between the corner and the desk, trying to blend into the wallpaper. Its delicate rose and lemon print clashed jarringly with her faded navy t-shirt, but for a wonder no one seemed to notice. Maybe the bedazzled laptop obscured the bits of her too large to hunker behind the mahogany office set.

She glanced around the room and saw six girls as airy and delicate as the pillows they lounged on.

“Sweetie, _work_ your colors.” Margaery rolled her eyes, batting the eye-dust from the grip of West Eros High’s freshman cheerleader to replace it with a jar of her own. The colors were indistinguishable to Brienne. “Gingers are hot right now.”

“You think so?”

 _Yeah_ , Brienne thought, pulling her eyes from Sansa’s small, sweet smile to the dull glimmer of pink rhinestones on Sansa’s macbook, _definitely the computer._

“Ooh, Sansa,” Jeyne piped up from beneath the babble of conversation. “Sansa – sweetie – try the brown top. It’ll make your freckles pop.”

Jeyne hadn’t realized that Sansa’s popularity was Admit One. Brienne knew how much it would suck when she got the message.

“Freckles should be delicate,” Mel said breezily from her spot on the floor: curled up with Jeyne’s Magic 8-Ball, which Cersei had promptly turned into a joke. “ _Mysterious_.”

Brienne winced. Brown, black, or blue, no color shirt would ever disguise her freckles. During hockey season they were apparent at best. Once football practice started, she’d have tan splotches across half her face.

“Pop _mysteriously_ ,” Jeyne tried.

Sansa gave her friend a small smile.

Brienne tried to squish herself further into the corner. She’d deposited herself there when Mrs. Stark bustled her in three endless hours ago, and—despite the pain knotting in her shoulder—she hadn’t moved since. Sansa’s mom was nice, but kind of unrealistic. She was in Junior League with Cersei’s stepmom, who seemed to know from Jaime that Brienne didn’t have many girlfriends.

Or any.

So when Arya hitched a ride with Brienne after hockey practice, her mom had all but strong-armed her towering teammate into the house.

“We’ll find you an old shirt of Robb’s to wear,” Mrs. Stark had promised. Her smile was reassuring, even if her words were not. “It’ll be fun.”

Like this whole slumber party was going to end in anything but disaster.

Brienne wished, not for the first time, that she’d stayed for Suicides with the boys who’d been late for practice.

 _Jaime Lannister showed up late_ , a part of her brain whispered.

_Of course he did. He thinks rules were invented for people not named “Lannister.”_

Her disapproval didn’t stop her from conjuring an image of Jaime after practice, tugging a sweaty jersey up over his head. He never paid attention when the pads caught his clothes . . .

“Cersei,” Sansa squealed, half awed, half disgusted.

Brienne startled out of her daydream. The story she was dumped into made her want to wash her brain with bleach.

“You _did not_ hook up with _all three_ of the Kettleblacks.”

 _Right_ , Brienne remembered. She had caught Jaime hooking up with his stepsister in the locker room her second night as first-string. _That_ had put an end to her hero-worship in a hurry. No matter how beautifully he had boarded Ron Connington after word leaked about Brienne’s disaster date.

Cersei was playing coy. “Who’s to say?”

Her eyes spoke volumes, though, and they said things Brienne wanted no part of.

“I’m sure that went over well with King Bob.” Margaery’s smile could have said any number of things, none of which Brienne could translate. “I hope they taught Joff not to fall on his ass while he keeps an eye on his adoring fans.”

“You wouldn’t . . .” Sansa sounded uncertain and oddly fascinated.

“Oh please, she’d hook up with Ian Payne if he’d play her cousin Joffrey more,” Mel joked.

Cersei threw her a dark look. The middle school coach was in tight with her stepbrother, but he rarely said a word off the ice. Cersei apparently took it personally.

 _You don’t need words when you’re that good with a puck_.

Not that these girls would understand that.

Taena Merryweather cackled. “Cersei’d hook up with _that_ if it meant Joff got to play.”

It took Brienne a minute to realize that _she_ was the ungodly creature in question.

“Doesn’t she wish.” Cersei smiled the sort of smile that Brienne read with ease.

A hot flush rushed through her, a bloody stain from her chest to her scalp.

“She does!” Jeyne gasped, falling sideways in a fit of giggles.

“That’s not– ” Moisture fled Brienne’s mouth. “I’m not– ”

The giggles pitched higher; the echo of laughter multiplied to the _n_ th degree.

“I bet she just longs for you, Cersei,” Taena went on, trailing her fingers along her friend’s thigh. “Surrounded by all those _boys_ and dreaming of nothing but _girls_.”

Sansa scrunched her nose.

Brienne wanted nothing more than to bolt for the door, but horror kept her rooted. Just like the night Red Ron had given her his bouquet of dead roses, or when Kyle Hunt had kissed her, his camcorder pulled wide for that perfect shot.

She was always the punchline.

Margaery snorted, disrupting the glee of the girls watching Brienne silently spiral.

“What,” Cersei demanded, “is so funny?”

Margaery made a show of turning to face her, cheer squad smile slipping into place. “Cersei, sweetie, have you ever actually talked to Brie?”

Cersei looked affronted, and Taena spoke up. “Like she would talk to Brienne the Beauty. Besides, it’s not like boys have to talk to her before wanting to shove a hand up her skirt.”

“If you had,” Margaery continued lightly, “you’d know she has about as much interest in girls as– ” she made a show of looking at Taena, then scooted her eyes to a different target “– well, Mel.”

“Keep that mystery far from me,” Mel added helpfully.

Cersei looked annoyed and entirely unconvinced, but Brienne could breathe again.

“You two are friends?” Sansa asked, tentative, as her eyes flitted from the brunette to the blonde and back again.

“No, but she did have a monster crush on my brother’s boyfriend.”

The room seemed to gasp as one, and Brienne wanted to sink beneath the floorboards.

“Gaydar much?”

“You did not have the hots for Renly No-Straight-Man-Has-Hair-This-Good Baratheon.”

“He wears Chanel, for goodness sake.”

“Ladies.” They fell silent as Cersei spoke. It must be a cheer captain thing. “Don’t tease poor– ” she scrunched her stunning features, making a show of thinking.

Brienne knew Cersei knew her name; she was the one who orchestrated the _“pop Brie’s cherry before semi-finals”_ bet. And it’s not like Brienne hadn’t given her and Jaime rides that summer when Mr. Lannister confiscated Jaime’s car so he’d “focus on football.”

“– _Brienne_ just because she lacks experience with men. It’s hardly her fault they find her unappealing.”

And Cersei smiled at her with two parts sympathy, one part victory.

Sansa spoiled it.

“Mar, your brother’s gay?”

The girls dissolved into giggles again. Friendly, this time.

Brienne took the opportunity to scoot from behind the desk and crawl towards the door.

“Whose gaydar’s worse?” Mel’s question stilled the room. “Brienne or Sansa?”

Brienne froze in a crouch, trying to decide if she should make a run for it.

Mel tossed back her hair, shook the 8-Ball vigorously, and raised it dramatically aloft before she calmly read, “ _‘Not today.’_ ”

“What a let down,” Margaery commiserated, but her eyes were twinkling.

At Brienne.

There really was no escape.

“So wait, if Renly’s dating Loras– ” Sansa began.

Cersei caught on. “Who is the unfortunate object of your affection?”

_Is this what girls do for fun?_

“No one,” she squeaked. Her as-good-as-an-admission met an embarrassing and, frankly, obnoxious round of _ooh_ s as six girls descended on Brienne like an offensive line. Even Margaery looked curious, and Brienne had thought the girl was on her side.

 _I should have known better. I can never pin Loras down either_.

Well, in hockey maybe. But that was where Brienne’s skill set ended.

“Is it a boy?” Taena asked archly.

Brienne’s burning face must have shown indignation, because Cersei huffed, waving off the question.

“We’ve established that, T. What we haven’t established,” she paused; her shifting eyes reminded Brienne of hungry lion, “is just how far out of her league he is.”

“The stratosphere,” Jeyne chimed in.

Sansa discreetly kicked her.

“I mean, I’m sure he’s charming,” the freshman hastily recovered.

“She does have a type,” Margaery ceded.

“Since when?” Taena snorted.

“Kyle Hunt, Renly Baratheon . . .”

“She went out with Red Ron before he was Red Ron,” Mel reminded them.

“He’s charming at times,” Margaery ventured, but her faint distaste reminded Brienne starkly of the time he _wasn’t_.

“He’s kind of a douche, though.”

“Egotistical,” Margaery said, and Mel shrugged, nodding.

_What does that have to do with anything?_

“Why’s he Red Ron, then?” Sansa wondered, and Taena muttered, “ _Freshman_.”

Brienne scored her bottom lip, disliking this turn of conversation almost as much as the conjecture about her non-existent love life.

“Jaime shoved his face into the boards.” Cersei toyed absently with the hem of her skirt, fixing Brienne with a look of idle speculation. Brienne prayed she was fuzzy on the details of that particular penalty.

“He matched his hair for a week,” Mel remembered fondly.

“Why would he do that?” Jeyne grimaced and looked to Sansa, as if a lifetime with Arya might help her explain the unfathomable world of senseless violence.

Brienne bristled. “He’s not as self-centered as people seem to think, okay?”

 _Crap_. She tensed as she realized what she’d done. But God must not hate her entirely, because the girls seemed to think she was interrupting their conversation, not complaining about it.

“Who, your crush?” Jeyne scooted eagerly to the side of the bed, glancing back at Sansa before adding, “I _knew_ you had a type.”

“The repressed butch falls for the bad boy.” Cersei settled back against a cushion, unimpressed. “Old as fucking time.”

Brienne flinched. She’d been ignoring Jaime’s effect on her for months now, but as the conversation crashed towards the truth, his smile flared to life behind her eyes.

She was still struggling with it a bit.

“He’s not– ” She winced, wondering how that slipped out. “I mean, I don’t– ”

It’s not like he’d ever looked at her twice. Beyond friendly high fives and that frustrating, know-it-all glance when Brienne had realized she’d wound up as his chauffer.

Appreciative looks in the heat of the game _did not_ translate to anything real world. Or else she was in huge trouble.

“Look, it’s not even a real crush, okay? It’s just, you know, a – friend crush or something.”

She hoped the small admission would get them off her back. Did predators give up if their victim played dead? She thought so.

“You love him!”

She was not expecting Taena’s giddy conclusion or the eager nods of assent from the other girls.

“ _No._ ” Brienne was fighting to control the fight or flight instinct clawing at her chest. “We’re friends. He’s just– he gets it, and we’re friends. _Sort of_ ,” she backtracked hastily. “Not even that, really.”

“A kindred soul?” Mel was fishing, tossing the Magic 8-Ball from hand to hand as she thought. “Someone– ”

“Sensitive,” Cersei interrupted with a derisive snort.

“No.”

“Another Renly?” Margaery mused, twisting a lock of shiny brown hair between her fingers. “Or . . . the anti-Renly?”

“Someone tall,” Sansa considered dreamily. “Strong. A girl wants to feel delicate, you know, and–  well . . .” she trailed off, looking embarrassed.

Brienne looked down at her hands, cracked and freckled, sitting palm up on her thick, jean-clad thighs. She felt less like a girl than ever.

She didn’t have to think twice to know Jaime was shorter than her. Barely.

 _But what guy would take_ that _blow to his ego?_

“Isn’t he just going to break her heart?” Cersei lilted, as one might ask a child, _‘Aren’t you just the darndest thing?’_

Brienne blinked and her hands seemed to blur. She shook her head, frustrated. The only guys at WEH who were taller than her were the Clegane brothers. She’d known that since freshman year, and the facts hadn’t changed in the last twenty minutes.

Besides, it wasn’t like her height was the thing scaring guys off. She had a pretty long list of things getting the job done just fine on their own.

“But _who is he_?” Jeyne nearly whined the question.

“He’s no one,” Brienne mumbled, knowing it was hopeless.

“Here’s what we’ve got so far.” Mel ticked each point off on her fingers. “Ripped enough that she won’t squish him, animal-magnetism, hot—kind of seems like a given, but we’ll throw that in there anyway—sensitive– ” she rolled her eyes in Cersei’s direction “– but kind of a bad boy. And someone she sees a lot, probably. I think that covers it?”

Margaery nodded. She seemed vaguely amused, like the whole conversation was just a game.

Brienne was pretty positive she was losing.

“She’s been hot for two brunets and a redhead, so unless she’s planning on rounding out the list, I’d say physical types are a bust.”

“Oh!” Realization dawned in Sansa’s eyes, and Brienne felt desperation welling in her. “You– ”

“No!”

That only made it worse.

“Sansa knows something.” Cersei rounded on her, and suddenly it was Sansa looking wide-eyed at Brienne.

 _Please_. Brienne couldn’t bring herself to mouth the plea.

“How do _you_ know when Loras couldn’t tease it out of Renly?”

“For real, even I don’t have this dirt.” Mel scooted closer to the bed, looking expectantly up at Sansa.

“I don’t know anything, really,” Sansa backpedaled.

Cersei leveled a look at her, and Sansa swallowed. “I swear. I just– ”

She glanced guiltily at Brienne.

Brienne was sure humiliation was slapped plain across her face.

“Who, Sansa?” Cersei demanded.

“I don’t know. It’s just– ” she hesitated, then blazed on, “I just figured it was someone on the team.”

The girls exchanged glances, speculative and enthusiastic.

“Which team?” Jeyne wanted to know.

“Both,” Margaery breathed, looking at Brienne with newfound appreciation.

Cersei shrieked. Honest to God, in the middle of the slumber party, shrieked. “I _knew_ you were a little schemer. Giving us rides, practicing all the time, walking in on– ” She cut herself off, and with effort resumed a more neutral expression. “As if you needed another unattainable target.”

“That’s perfect.” Margaery smiled, a smug expression Brienne was used to seeing on Loras. “You can double with my brother, and when Renly lets his ego get out of control Jaime can kick his ass.” She paused, tilting her head to consider. “Or you can.”

“Jaime’s taste in women is  . . . questionable,” Cersei said delicately. Brienne wondered if that meant he was the one to dump her, all those months ago. “But even he would never think twice about sleeping with someone so repulsive.”

“Jaime thinks you’re awesome,” Sansa piped up before the blow could do more than graze half-healed scars. She smiled at Brienne, clearly offering an olive branch.

Brienne was too flabbergasted to care. Jaime thought _she_ was awesome?

“Since when?” Jeyne sounded even more confused than Brienne.

“Since always.” Sansa bit her lip, smoothed her dress, and shrugged. “Says Arya.”

“Guys, I’ve got the solution,” Mel slid back across the carpet until she sat in the center of its sprawling design. The girls paused to watch. She smiled, flipping back her cherry red hair as the tension built slowly across her stage. When she sensed her audience growing tired of the theatrics, Mel grabbed the Magic 8-Ball from where it lay on the floor.

“Are Brienne and Jaime meant to be?” She shook the toy, but before she could see the prediction Cersei had snatched it away.

“Can we please not act like children?” She tossed the 8-Ball toward the bed; it bounced off the headboard and disappeared beneath a ruffled pillow. “She’s not even part of this slumber party.” Cersei curled gracefully into a chair and smoothed her skirt. “So if we can please get back to what’s important?”

“Who even invited her?” Taena complained. “Sansa’s mom?”

Mel shrugged. Margaery frowned. Sansa opened her mouth, whether to defend Brienne or defend against her, the older girl didn’t know.

“You’re all such bitches.”

Seven heads whipped around.

Arya was standing in the open doorway, arms crossed, still in her hockey pants.

“Go away, Arya,” Sansa hissed.

Cersei sniffed, and Taena mirrored her expression.

“Whatever.” Arya turned to Brienne, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor. “Jon and Robb are watching the playoffs. It’s way more fun than these gossipy airheads.”

It wasn’t an invitation really, but Brienne hauled herself off the floor and gratefully followed Arya to the entertainment room, where her brothers had built a stockade of snacks and surround sound.

“Thanks,” Brienne made herself say when the game went to a commercial. _I hate girl talk_ , she almost added.

“Duh,” Arya mumbled around a mouthful of queso.

Brienne settled into the cushions, relaxing for the first time since hockey practice.

They were reliving the finer points of the game when Sansa wandered into the kitchen a few hours later.

“Sick of girl time already?” Robb sounded torn between sternness and amusement as he took in his sister’s outfit. She’d changed since Brienne had seen her, but she couldn’t remember what the cheerleader had been wearing before.

“We need snacks.” Sansa darted under her brother’s attempt to ruffle her hair, shooting him a dirty look as she pilfered a plate of lemon squares from the fridge.

“Those are for your mom’s Junior League thing,” Jon warned her.

“And now they’re for my friends,” Sansa retorted.

Robb shook his head, shooting his sister a look that promised a firm lecture when the guests had gone. Sansa made to leave, the fancy ivory dish balanced on one hand.

Brienne was startled to feel something press into her palm beneath the table. Her eyes flicked down to see her large, freckled fingers cradling the Magic 8-Ball.

Sansa maneuvered her tray, hiding the toy from the others as she leaned in close to Brienne’s ear. Brienne clutched the ball tighter, not quite comprehending until Sansa murmured a confirmation.

_“It is known.”_

And then she was gone, breezing back up the stairs to her friends.

Brienne shook her head to dispel the whisper, but the words clung to the brittle hair beside her ear, rustling anew with each jerk of her chin. The Magic 8-Ball drew her eye like a moth to the flame—a childish trick teasing the words she wanted to hear.

Brienne bit her lip against the faint stir of hope in her heart.


	2. i carry your heart (straight to the penalty box)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendly game.

                                                          

Interlude

Loras was late.

It wasn’t that Jaime cared—Loras could stuff himself up Renly’s ass and stay there if he thought it was better than hockey. But Jaime Lannister had better ways to spend his Tuesday afternoons. So when an uppity sophomore wanted to practice with the team captain, he better not be damn late.

Jaime could be at the gym right now. Better yet, he could be kicking Loras’s scrawny, pompous ass right now. Instead he was skating figure eights, working on puck drills he knew like the back of his hand until Renly stopped feeling up his left-winger.

The heavy metal doors pushed open, flashing sunlight across the ice before the familiar clang of the closing door reverberated around the arena, leaving him blinking under the artificial overheads.

He glanced up, trying to decide whether it would be more satisfying to skate Loras into the ground or tell him to fuck off. But instead of curly hair and rumpled clothes, he found Brienne hustling toward the locker room, clutching her gym bag like it was her salvation.

Or her sanity. Which reminded him . . .

Jaime didn’t know how the hell Brienne Tarth ended up at one of the most elite slumber parties of the semester, but Cersei had bitched about it for two days straight.

He had to admit, it was an entertaining picture. His first string center forward facing down an offense of cheerleaders with hairbrushes, and probably more terrified than when she’d demolished Big Bear Mormont during last year’s finals.

“Looking good, Brienne,” he called across the ice.

She stopped, fumbling her bag as it jerked off her shoulder and dipped toward the floor.

A grin twitched his lips. Half an arena away, and he could _see_ her face turn red enough to rival his sweater.

Jaime flicked the puck at her cheekily, catching it on his stick before it could fly too far. He was weirdly pleased when she didn’t even flinch.

“Lack of femininity suits you.”

Her face darkened, swiftly trouncing the color competition. She strangled her hockey bag, color bleeding from her knuckles to saturate her ears. She was almost maroon under her freckles, and he wasn’t even trying.

He bit back a laugh as she turned and practically stalked to the women’s showers. Jaime watched her go, wrist curving to hook the puck in his taper and dance it from one side of his blade to the other.

He was still half-assing slapshots, aiming the puck at the clock and picturing Loras, when Brienne emerged ten minutes later. She didn’t acknowledge him, beelining for the bench to methodically sort her equipment. He amused himself by watching her, carving designs in the ice as he waited for her to notice him staring and drop something.

But the sleepover must’ve fritzed her ‘crap! _people’_ button—or else she was deliberately ignoring him—because she moved from prepping her stick to tugging at her laces without a glance at him.

It was actually kind of boring watching her lace her skates. She took such an insanely long time about it.

“Hey, Tarth, you seen Tyrell?”

Her fingers fumbled at the laces, but she didn’t look up. She yanked her bindings with extra force, as if that would keep him from noticing.

“Renly surprised him with tickets.” Her voice echoed across the ice, bouncing off the rafters. “It’s their six-monthiversary.”

He’d been downright pissed at Loras, but the idiotic word was so awkward in Brienne’s mouth that Jaime couldn’t help it. He laughed.

She blinked, eying him warily, like she wanted to know what he was laughing at and figured it was probably her.

That expression was going to drive him insane someday.

“Then get the hell out here, Tarth. I’ve been padded up for twenty minutes and haven’t hit anything yet.”

He didn’t know if it was habit—years of jumping when he barked orders—or if he’d needled her right past embarrassment and into ire, but without a word Brienne tightened her last binding, slipped on her helmet, and trekked out onto the ice.

It always surprised Jaime a little, how quickly Brienne went from a stuttering introvert to a force to be reckoned with. He could have sworn half a second ago she would have jumped if he said _boo_. Carving a line toward the faceoff circle, she looked more solid than the ice.

Jaime slid the puck between them, not bothering to ask about passing drills. Neither of them would miss the chance for one-on-one.

“Three,” she counted steadily. “Two.”

“One.” Jaime flicked his wrist, maneuvering the puck away before she could finish. He knew that if he turned to look, he’d see outrage plain on her face. But he’d already eaten through the defensive zone, casually swishing rubber in the top right corner.

“That was unfair,” she complained, catching up.

Jaime shrugged.

“What did I do wrong?” he challenged, moving backwards toward center ice as she fished out the puck.

“You– ” Brienne followed him to the faceoff circle, clearly at a loss. She spun to frown at the goal he’d just scored. Her frustration refocused to try and pin him. “You were– ”

“Faster than you?” He hooked the puck again, twisting to skate past her. But the weight of the rubber was gone, and Brienne was barreling down the ice a good yard away.

Jaime swore, spinning, determined to catch her.

He did.

She was fast, but Jaime was in a league of his own. He caught her with his shoulder and dug in his skates, wrestling the puck away from her.

Twenty minutes later the game was 4-4, and though he’d never admit it to her, Jaime was ready to hit the showers. Brienne must’ve realized the next goal was take-all, because she’d thrown herself into their scrimmage with more determination than he had left in his whole body.

 _Dumb shit, letting her wear you down. You_ know _endurance is her thing._

He needed to end it, or she would.

“Cersei couldn’t stop raving about your girls’ night in.” Well, more like ranting, but who was he to argue semantics? “I’m almost sorry I missed it.”

Brienne fumbled, re-hooked the puck.

A smile tugged Jaime’s lips. He made his next question rhetorical, skates gliding carelessly in tune with his tone.

“Was it the gobs of glitter or the gossip that had her so worked up?”

“I won’t let you distract me,” she mumbled, but they both knew he was doing just that.

“Won’t you?” he asked innocently.

He edged closer, tangling their sticks, and almost managed to slip the puck away. But Brienne knew his ploy, and in the end her stubbornness won.

“You’re easily distracted, so I hear,” he continued, unperturbed. He hadn’t worked through the details, but Brienne’s love life bombshell had pierced Cersei’s tough skin and rippled shockwaves through her cheer squad underlings.

Truth be told, it wasn’t that surprising. Brienne had needs like the rest of them. The guys had figured that out when she spent two scrimmages blushing at Ron Connington and one holed up in the girls’ locker room, probably crying _and_ using his picture for target practice.

But apparently Brienne’s tendency to pick douchebags was more than a one-time thing. Cersei deemed this one, “so far out of her league, they’re scored in different languages.”

Jaime didn’t know the guy, but he kind of begged to differ.

“Got a thing for hockey players?” he ribbed.

He expected a reaction. What he didn’t expect was for Brienne to stop dead, staring at him with something akin to fear.

He pulled himself up short. Unchecked, the puck slid behind the goalpost, skipped along the wall, and edged back onto the ice. It caught on a divot and halted abruptly. Jaime felt distinctly like his joke had frozen the entire arena.

“Did she– ” Brienne swallowed. Her throat was so dry he could barely hear her. “Did she tell you– ”

“Who’s the lucky bastard?” He made himself smile sardonically, unsettled by her wide blue eyes. “Nope. Weird for her. Normally when she’s pissed she’ll tell anyone who’ll listen.”

Tension drained from her rigid spine. Her eyes skated back to the ice.

A strange feeling crept up on him. “You better watch your back, Brienne.”

She blinked. She’d been studying the puck, determining how to overpower him, and the refocus on conversation threw her.

“Cersei,” he repeated. “Watch your back.”

Her brows knotted. “But you said– ”

“– she won’t tell anyone. Ergo, she’s plotting.”

He couldn’t tell if she looked more unnerved or resigned when she quietly asked, “Why?”

Jaime looked at her like she was crazy. Which, clearly, she was.

“She’s Cersei?”

He’d learned that lesson the hard way. Inseparable since the day they’d met, and two years into their covert relationship he’d found out she was sleeping with his cousin. For a Geometry grade.

 _Paint an ‘A’ across her chest_ , Jaime thought sourly.

“No, I mean . . .” Brienne looked longingly at the puck, like she didn’t want to say what she was saying. “Why would you tell me?”

“Team solidarity.” The words flew out on autopilot. She seemed willing to swallow them, but Jaime opened his mouth again. “You don’t deserve that, you know?”

He remembered how satisfying it had been to slam Ron’s face into the boards. He didn’t think that would fly with Cersei.

Brienne turned so red so fast, you’d have thought he’d just shoved _her_ face into the boards. She turned and chased the puck, for all that it wasn’t moving.

He wasn’t worried. Brienne was the type to insist on another faceoff. _Fairness_ and _integrity of the game_.

“Anyway– ” he knocked his stick on the ice, adjusted his grip, “– when her shit-fit hits the fan, we don’t need another week of you moping in the bathroom.”

She whirled. The puck looked dangerously alive in her possession.

“I never missed a _minute_ of practice.”

Indignant was his favorite look on her.

“Sure you did. Your eyes were all swollen and pink; it couldn’t have been good for your tracking. And you acted like the rest of the team didn’t exist. _‘Men are the devil’_ or whatever. I had to trash Connington to snap you out of it.”

She seemed unable to form words, which was probably not good for his bodily health. Faster than she’d moved all day, Brienne slapped her stick against the ice. The puck sailed toward him, and Jaime had a second to fear for his life before it passed smoothly and swiftly to his left.

“Icing,” he called, unable to help himself.

Brienne gripped her stick like she might throw it at him. Grinding her teeth, she whirled toward the penalty box. She clambered inside and kept going, disappearing down the hall without pausing to take off her skates.

Jaime glanced over his shoulder. The puck must’ve hit net and bounced; it rested square in the middle of the goalposts.

“5-4,” he muttered. “Damn it all.”

He looked down at his stick, frowning.

Deliberately, Jaime made himself skate across the rink, scoop the puck from the goal, and resume his solitary drills. He didn’t glance up when Brienne marched down the edge of his vision, but when the heavy door echoed closed, the arena felt cavernous and empty.


	3. things change and get strange (it's happening right now to you)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I've been away for the week, so instead of catching up on things like work and unpacking, I pulled out my polishing cloth and gave this chapter a ~~once~~ thrice over. Thanks for your patience as I clean it up!

                                                                                                          


 _Head down, eyes on your books_.

Brienne was used to letting insults bounce off her, staying impassive by necessity. That strategy had gotten her through grade school, middle school, and three semesters at West Eros High.

Today it was failing her.

“Great hair, Brienne,” Taena hooted from her locker as Brienne tried to slink into Health. “The dead straw look is in this year.”

Bombarding Brienne with underhanded compliments was the cheer squad’s new unofficial team building exercise. Taena was less subtle about it than her friends, but just as enthusiastic.

Brienne wished she could be grateful for the transparency, but the attack caught her off guard. Instead of making an unremarkable entrance to third period, she stumbled through the door, barely avoiding snagging her sneaker on a carelessly placed backpack.

Jaime had warned her that Cersei was up to something. That knowledge wasn’t quite enough to console her.

Brienne slid into her seat, third from the back, and dutifully pulled out her binder and textbook. If she’d learned anything over the years, it was that mindless note taking did wonders for blocking out snickers. Even if she sucked at the subject at hand.

Loras frowned at her.

“What did you do to piss off Queen C?”

Brienne winced.

The chilly ‘you spent a year crushing on my boyfriend’ phase was far enough behind them that she and Loras counted each other as friends. She figured it had something to do with the fact that—despite her distinct lack of curves—her chances with Renly were roughly equal to her chances of winning prom queen. Still, ‘ _have a crush on her stepbrother’_ wasn’t an answer she felt comfortable sharing.

“There was this sleepover . . .” she hedged.

Loras raised an eyebrow. She watched him scroll through his mental social calendar. “That you planned the same night as the cheerleader soiree?”

Unwritten rule of high school #4: mess with a cheer event and your social life was forfeit. Loras may as well have tacked, “are you an idiot?” onto the end of his question.

She should probably shut up, shrug, and let him make of it what he may. But Brienne was caught up in a surge of gratitude that Loras thought she could plan a sleepover.

“Um, it _was_ the cheerleader soiree,” she admitted.

Loras snorted.

When it became clear that Brienne had not become magically funny overnight, he gaped at her. “How the hell did you manage to crash that?” And then, just so she didn’t have to imagine it, he added, “Are you insane? No wonder Cersei’s glaring daggers at you.”

“Sansa’s mom tricked me,” she defended lamely. She felt guilty blaming Mrs. Stark when the woman had been nothing but kind to the awkward girl from her daughter’s hockey team. But it wasn’t like Brienne had wanted to be there.

Loras snickered.

His amusement irritated her. He was gorgeous _and_ athletic, and dating Renly besides. What did he know about being unattractive and socially inept?

“Shut up,” she grumbled, flipping open her Health book and glancing through yesterday’s lesson. Pycelle’s lectures always seemed to veer off into Sex Ed territory. “Those girls are more vicious than the Bloody Marys.”

The Bloody Marys were from Saint Mary’s, the Catholic school on the other side of town. A decades-long reputation for wicked fouls and constant bloodshed made the team’s nickname more recognizable than the school they played for.

“The Marys don’t scare me,” Loras postured. When Brienne snorted, he amended, “But they’re a hell of a lot scarier than cheerleaders.”

 _Let’s bring Cersei to the game next week_ , she didn’t say. _Ten bucks says she sends Hoat home crying._

He cocked his head, amused. “Did they tease you to death?”

Brienne winced, even though she was fairly certain he was talking about hair and not the ritual humiliation she had experienced.

“Gossip me to death, more like.” Nervous energy made her tap her pencil against the desk, a disjointed staccato that vibrated through her fingers. She forced herself to quit, but the room felt oddly tense in the absence of the dull rhythm.

“I’m sure you heard more than you could stomach about the nitty gritty of keeping a PR boyfriend.” He grimaced, disappearing into a memory, and when he returned he shivered. “Renly wasn’t kidding when he said drunk Bob overshares.”

Brienne went back to tapping her pencil.

Loras tried another tact. “Did Mar stop playing coy about her love life?”

Brienne didn’t pride herself on social aptitude, but even she could see he was fishing for information. The Tyrells were close, a nuclear family resembling the Starks more than the Lannisters or the Baratheons. But Loras and Margaery were forever locked in friendly competition, and lately Margaery had the upper hand.

“Margaery was nice,” she answered noncommittally.

“And what? Now you’re in and Cersei’s feeling threatened?” Loras sounded skeptical. “She could insure her eyelashes as a source of income and you mentor Pee Wee Hockey dropouts for fun.”

“Pod’s getting good,” she defended.

“Missing the point.”

“The point is she was miserable,” Renly said from across the room.

Brienne started. She looked up in time to see him slide onto Loras’ desk, casually propping a hand on the back of his boyfriend’s chair. His presence hit Loras like a tangible thing. His posture relaxed, shoulders pressing forward, eyes bright.

Brienne felt a pang somewhere near her heart. She was over the Renly thing, really. Ten minutes of Loras talking about his “sun in a world of candles” and Brienne had started to realize that it wasn’t Renly she loved, just his kindness.

But it must be nice.

“Why are you slumming it?” Loras glanced up at Renly, not quite managing to suppress a smile. “Don’t art students usually avoid mingling with the main block?”

Brienne was curious, too. Renly had Art Theory, clear across the quad. Health Sciences was about as far from his corner of the morning as you could get.

“Pycelle’s out sick,” he shrugged around his boyfriend, “and I had a work period.”

Loras sniggered.

The last time Renly had let slip that art classes allowed work periods, his dad had yanked him out of school for a weeklong hunting expedition. Renly had quoted phrases like, “manning up” and “learning jack shit” for days.

His family hadn’t been pleased when Renly had dropped football that fall.

“So you’re stealing us away?” Loras smiled brightly.

Renly glanced at Brienne before meeting his boyfriend’s eyes. His expression flickered for half a second before settling back into easy affability. “Car’s by the quad.”

“Nice.”

Loras turned to her, but Brienne was already shaking her head. “I’ve got Lit stuff,” she fibbed. “You two go ahead.”

Loras shrugged and stood, sliding his books into his open messenger bag and swinging it up over his head. “See you at practice.”

Brienne wished she were still oblivious enough that she could overlook Renly’s relieved smile.

“Bye, guys,” she said, but they were already gone.

Technically her _Twelfth Night_ section didn’t start for another week, but the story was forever relevant as far as Brienne was concerned. She may as well lose herself in the version that ended in eternal bliss.

She had career guidance 4th period, so she ended up reading straight through lunch. By the time 5th rolled around, Maria was deep into her scheme against Malvolio, and Brienne was pining for hockey practice. She tanked a pop quiz in Pre-Calc and spent most of World Civ watching snow flurries drift across the parking lot.

 _Looks like I’m failing_ that _quiz, too_ , Brienne thought, stuffing her notebook back in her locker after the final bell. She promised herself she’d study after practice. She wasn’t in danger of flunking off the team, but she couldn’t stand disappointing her dad by failing a test. He tried his best to support her extracurriculars, and if she couldn’t be the well-rounded daughter he deserved, she could at least keep her grades up.

“Well look at you.” A voice drifted like wind chimes above the cacophony of the hallway. Brienne felt a stab of horror, and all but buried herself in her locker.

Cersei would have none of it. She pulled the door flush against the row of lockers, looking Brienne down and up, up, up. Behind her a handful of pretty girls watched the spectacle unfold.

“Don’t you look . . . special.” Cersei’s smile could have been painted on; it didn’t shift a millimeter as she added, “That is such an _inventive_ wash on your jeans.”

Resigned, Brienne looked down, categorizing her appearance: jeans wearing through, faded gray Keds, a plain blue sweater on the nice side of normal. She’d pulled her hair into a quick ponytail before curling up with her book, and she prayed Taena hadn’t noticed.

“Cute shoes,” said a short girl Brienne didn’t know. “I didn’t know they distressed sneakers.”

“Accessorizing is so overrated,” another cheerleader piped up, toying with an expensive looking necklace. Brienne didn’t need her smirk to get the point.

“Nice sweater.” She hadn’t seen Sansa between the girls flanking Cersei. The freshman hung back, casting around for some insight into her friends’ game and coming up empty. “Blue suits you,” she offered, sounding hesitant.

Brienne wanted to sink into the floor.

Cersei rolled her eyes as Sansa added a cautious smile to her flattery, but the cheer captain schooled her features to give the freshman an appreciative nod. “I think we can all agree that Brienne is a _rare_ sort of beauty.”

She looked away, intent on something Brienne couldn’t see, and when she refocused her painted smile gleamed. “Doesn’t Brienne look _stun_ ning, Jaime?”

Heat erupted in the air, roiling across Brienne’s pale skin, pricking her beneath her clothes. She staunchly refused to turn and give Jaime a chance to add to her humiliation.

He came up beside them, barely glancing at his teammate before shrugging off his stepsister’s question. “She wears casual better than you.”

Brienne bit her tongue to keep herself in check. Cersei Lannister would be a goddess in a sack. It was cruel of him to point it out.

“I’d love to see her in a dress,” Cersei mused.

The other girls giggled, and Brienne felt like a freak on parade.

“What do you want?” Brienne muttered to Jaime. At the moment he seemed like her safest option.

“Yes, Jaime– ” Cersei looked from her stepbrother to his teammate, arched a suggestive brow at Brienne, then let Jaime recapture her attention “– what do you _want?_ ”

“A ride,” he said bluntly, leaning against the lockers between Brienne and her tormenters. “You’ve got my keys.”

“We’re shopping,” Cersei informed him. “But if you ask nicely, I’ll consider– ”

“Wasn’t asking you,” he cut her off.

The look on Cersei’s face almost eased the sting of the joke. She looked like she’d caught a spray of bloody ice over the Plexiglass that protected the stands.

“I don’t have time for you,” she announced.

Brienne didn’t know which of them she was talking to.

Cersei’s chin jerked up as she swept away. The other girls trailed her like they had strings around their little fingers.

Jaime rolled his eyes after her. “I must’ve been high,” Brienne thought she heard him mutter.

She shuffled her feet for half a second before determining a quick exit was probably her best bet. She snatched her bag from her locker and zipped it noisily around her textbooks.

Jaime glanced over like he’d forgotten she was there. She hadn’t really expected anything different.

“Ego still intact?” The words were flippant, but his green eyes were restless.

Brienne wondered how much time he spent apologizing for his stepsister’s behavior. Then she wondered how much he spent apologizing for _his own_ behavior. The answer was probably “not enough.”

“Ego?” she repeated weakly, grimacing as her attempt at a joke fell flat.

Jaime smiled away the discomfort and pushed himself off the lockers. Brienne took that as her cue to go. She slung her backpack onto one shoulder, slamming her locker door to disperse her leftover jitters.

“So are you going to surrender the keys peaceably,” Jaime asked, “or do I have to fight for them?” He headed for the side entrance, the one that led to the sophomore lot. “You drive like an old lady, and I don’t particularly want to skate suicides today.”

Brienne hastened to match his stride.

“You were being serious?” she asked, choosing to ignore the snide comment about her healthy respect for traffic laws.

“What, you can’t stand me for ten minutes?”

The stare he fixed on her was entirely provocative. She couldn’t tell how much of that smile was affectation, and how much was arrogance.

Brienne clenched her teeth.

“Five minutes alone with my dashing good looks and you’ll be spilling all sorts of secrets.”

She felt herself go red to her roots. Her only secrets worth spilling were about _him_.

Her teeth snagged the heated flesh of her cheek.

Jaime laughed, dropping the façade. “I told Cersei I was hitching with you. You wouldn’t make me a liar, would you?” He turned his eyes on her, deep and green and sparkling with feigned innocence.

“Would that make the first one today,” Brienne muttered, “or just after the bell?”

Jaime smiled and bumped her shoulder. Her stomach lurched, and breathing suddenly took a great deal of concentration. She bit her lip, ordering herself to stop overreacting. She was about to make an idiot of herself, and she’d already done that twice today. Besides, Jaime was–

She cast about for several long seconds before she caught sight of him striding toward her old blue Camry, twirling her keys around his finger. Brienne glanced down at her backpack. The side zipper she so diligently checked each morning gaped open, only half done.

“That’s pick pocketing!” she objected, chasing after him.

But Jaime was remarkably obstinate, and Brienne yielded faster when she was embarrassed, so she wound up sitting passenger in her own car, wincing as he paid half a mind to cars and stoplights alike. She was more concerned about a potential car wreck than being trapped in the car with him, until he reached for the radio and—terrified that he might recognize the sap in her CD player—she grabbed his hand without thinking.

“Music breaks my concentration,” she stammered, dropping his fingers before he could realize how sweaty her palms had gotten. “Before practice,” she added lamely.

Which, of course, led to Jaime serenading her with everything from Rihanna to Frank Sinatra while Brienne hunched down in her seat, grinding her teeth to keep from smacking him.

“Next time you’ll be singing along,” he threatened as he pulled into his parking space and tossed Brienne her keys.

She climbed out of the car and slammed the door, which only seemed to amuse him more.

“Next time we’re listening to Gospel choir,” she told him, dead serious. The words to S&M still burned in her ears. Jaime Lannister singing “make my body say _ah_ ” should be a sin.

Her name echoed off the parked cars. Brienne turned and saw Loras jogging towards her. The set of his mouth demanded an explanation; the look in his eyes said, “five seconds ago.”

“What’s up with you and Lannisters today?” he asked, more bluntly than seemed fair.

Brienne opened her mouth, but no explanation came out.

“Cersei’s in a mood and I needed a ride,” Jaime piped up.

Loras crossed his arms, unimpressed.

Jaime’s voice dropped dangerously. Next to his friendly pestering, the change was jarring. “Some of us actually care about showing up for practice.”

“If you have something to say—” Loras edged forward, enunciating every syllable “— _say it_.”

“If you want someone at your beck and call, jump back in Renly’s Beamer. Otherwise, I expect you to be here.”

Her friend flared before Brienne could blink. “If you think this team can survive the Bloody Marys without me– ”

“I’d feed you to the Marys if I thought it’d make you take this seriously. Maybe when they’re picking you out of their teeth, you’ll realize you can’t just show up when it’s _convenient_.”

Brienne’s mouth opened and closed, but no sound slipped out. She wondered what she’d missed. Jaime and Loras had never exactly gotten along—you could only fit so much bravado into one arena—but this was light-years away from the expected fallout of Loras skipping sessions.

“I’d offer you as a palate cleanser,” Loras snapped, “but once you’ve had the best . . .” He let the sentence dangle, taunting.

Brienne realized she’d been inching backwards and forced her feet forward. She had no idea what had set them off, but her chances of talking either down from a testosterone trip seemed pretty slim.

She tried anyway. “Guys– ”

“You’re lucky Brienne can swing a stick, or I’d have shoved mine up your ass and had you out for the season.”

Loras tensed.

Suddenly Brienne felt very, very out of place.

“You and your sister stay the fuck away from her.”

Brienne almost dropped her bag. “Loras!”

“Because clearly _you_ have her best interests at heart.”

“Jaime– ” she protested.

How had this become about _her_?

Whatever Jaime was insinuating, Loras didn’t like it. This time, his step forward wasn’t threatening: it was full of intent.

“That’s enough,” Brienne decided firmly, muscling between them. “Whatever this is about, it’s your job,” she glared at Jaime, “to think about the team.”

Jaime pretended he hadn’t heard.

Loras tried to shove past her, but Brienne caught him by the arm. His fists curled. He seemed to be contemplating the effectiveness of a left hook to Jaime’s ribs, so she planted her feet squarely in his path.

There must be some way to diffuse the situation, but she had no idea what to say.

“Hey, meatheads!” Arya shouted at them.

Brienne was the only one to glance over. She could practically feel the younger girl roll her eyes.

“Are you gonna stand around like morons, or are you gonna show me the drills I missed last week?”

Arya Stark had two loving parents and a rebellious streak a mile wide. Sometimes it seemed like she missed more practices than she attended, but she had natural skill and usually made up for getting grounded. She wasn’t the only middle schooler playing up for nothing.

Loras and Jaime spent another few seconds glowering at each other, and then Loras shook off Brienne and headed toward the arena. Jaime remained anchored to the asphalt.

“Chop, chop.” Arya clapped her hands at her captain, shooing him after Loras’ retreating figure.

Brienne expected him to go off again, but Jaime just frowned and followed Arya to the rink, grumbling about “upstart pretty boys” and “respect for authority.”

Brienne ground her Keds against the fading paint of a parking space, giving them a head start. She had no desire to end up in the middle of _that_ again.

“Brienne, dear!”

She jumped, half expecting a cheerleader to jump from the bushes. But it was only Arya’s mom, waving her over from her idling minivan.

Brienne trudged across the parking lot, trying to steady her trembling fingers. The weirdness with the boys had frazzled her. Whatever was up with them, it had felt strangely like watching the brother she never had scare off the boyfriend she never would.

“Hey, Mrs. Stark.” She tried to smile, but her lips only twitched up before sinking back into a wide, flat line.

“Brienne, how are you?”

The thing Brienne liked about Mrs. Stark was that when she asked questions like that, it seemed like she actually wanted to know.

 _Weird,_ she almost said. _Off-kilter. Baffled by the male mind._

“Fine. What’s up?”

“Well, dear,” Mrs. Stark began slowly, and just like that Brienne knew something terrible was about to happen, “last night Cersei came to Joanna with an unlikely request.”

If Brienne were prone to strong language, or remotely capable of stringing words together under pressure, she was sure she’d be cursing eloquently. As it was, she simply gaped at Catelyn Stark.

“It seems you’ve never been invited to cotillion. Of course, Cersei was a deb years ago, and Sansa’s still a year away, but your friend Margaery will be there, and she’s convinced – oh, that astrology girl – Mel to join the fun.” She paused to smile at Brienne. “Some of the girls thought you might like to be included.”

“C-cotillion?”

Brienne could hear Cersei jeering in her head. _“I would_ love _to see her in a dress.”_

“Jo and I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Mrs. Stark prodded. But she must have read the total panic on Brienne’s face, because she added gently, “It’s completely up to you.”

“That’s – I mean – not really my thing,” Brienne managed.

“It sounds daunting,” Mrs. Stark agreed with a nod. “And goodness knows I’ll never get Arya to go. But you can learn a lot about yourself at cotillion; gain some valuable life experience. And it looks good on college applications.”

“I’ve got hockey,” Brienne reminded her. “And football, in the fall.”

“It’ll be over by May. And there’s nothing that says you can’t do both.” She hesitated, looking at Brienne the way she imagined a concerned mother would look at her daughter. “I think it would be nice for you to make some new friends.”

Mrs. Stark reached through the window to pat Brienne’s arm. “I’ve left the information with your father. Just think about it. Alright, dear?”

Somewhere inside the rink, Coach Selmy’s whistle echoed across the ice. Brienne stood unmoved in the parking lot, watching the Stark’s silver minivan disappear into the distance.

Cotillion.

She felt like she’d been duped by the universe.


	4. winter comes too soon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We'll dig a hole and bury our defeat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies. I really didn't mean to let this go so long without an update. Life's been a bit busy lately, and unfortunately revising WEH hasn't been at the top of my priority list. But ideally I'll have the whole thing fixed up in a month or so, which will (in my dream world of happy muses) inspire me to finish the epilogue. We'll see how that goes.

 

It took Brienne’s dad six days to break down and bring up cotillion. She’d started to wonder if he knew it was a disaster in the making and decided to drop the issue. But her dad was forever worrying about her best interests, and she knew this was just the sort of thing he’d decide she was missing out on.

“I know you love hockey, honey,” he said, closing the book he’d been pretending to read until she got home, “and you’re good at it. But don’t you think it’s time to introduce some variety to your extracurriculars?”

“Variety” had been his word of choice since before she’d hit puberty. It was his dad way of saying “female friends,” “femininity,” and “social grace.”

“I could take up baking,” she offered, riffling through the cupboard for an energy bar.

“Baking is a solitary endeavor.” He sighed, setting aside his book to leaf through the pamphlets on the table. Mrs. Stark’s tidy script prefaced the header _Etiquette and Acumen: Learning to Succeed Gracefully_.

Brienne didn’t look closely enough to see what she had written.

“Cotillion sounds like an opportunity to get out there and meet other girls your age.”

“I already _know_ girls my age.”

How could she tell him that was the problem?

“I know it’s out of your comfort zone,” he conceded as she slid onto the barstool beside him, “but people aren’t always as bad as you think.”

 _Sometimes they’re worse._ It was an uncharitable thought, but Brienne couldn’t convince herself it wasn’t true.

He waited as she mulled it over, his familiar, weathered hands pressed flat on the glossy papers stamped with glossy smiles. She could read frustration in the furrow of his salt-and-pepper brow.

 _Why won’t you try?_ it seemed to say.

 _I did,_ she wanted to reply.

But she hadn’t told him what Ron had done, turning their “dad sanctioned” blind date into a farce. He didn’t know there’d been a bet: that guys had written sonnets and given her chocolates and Kyle Hunt had laughed, “‘no’ in chick means ‘try harder.’” She hadn’t divulged that her night at the Starks had started in Sansa’s room, not Arya’s.

She loved her dad, she really did. She couldn’t do that to him.

“Those girls don’t want me there,” she admitted, staring down at her hands. They dwarfed her protein bar, swallowing it whole. None of the other girls’ would even come close. “They’ve already got their own thing.”

But if social politics baffled Brienne, no one could argue she didn’t come by it naturally.

“Joanna Lannister told me her stepdaughter made a point to invite you. Honey, people can’t surprise you if you don’t give them a chance.”

“I guess,” she said, fiddling with her wrapper.

“It’s not enough to be part of the team, Brienne,” he told her softly.

The concern in his eyes was getting to her. It always did.

“I’m fine,” she insisted, tearing open her dinner and filling her mouth.

“I don’t want ‘fine,’” he grumbled. “I want ‘happy.’”

“Hockey makes me happy.”

“Until the game ends.”

 _And you’re alone_ , he didn’t have to say. Quiet nights with her dad weren’t always enough.

She chewed, sorting her thoughts, but there were no easy words for what she was feeling. “Cotillion won’t make me happy,” she said after a while.

Her dad searched her face for some elusive answer, as though he could give her the perfect life through sheer force of will.

“It could be a start,” he murmured, and Brienne knew he was done pushing.

She sighed. She could never bear to make her dad unhappy. “Could you call Mrs. Stark for me? I’m gonna be late for warm-ups.”

He smiled, a mere quirk of the lips, there and gone again, but his eyes were warm as he brushed her cheek. “New adventures,” he declared softly.

Brienne smiled into his hand, and the rush of affection she felt was almost enough to root out the fear burrowing into the pit of her stomach.

“New adventures,” she whispered.

 _And a hockey game to dull the pain_.

 

* * *

 

_This is where I belong._

Brienne clutched her stick, rocking back and forth on the edge of the bench as she waited for the next line change. Her eyes kept flicking to the Bloody Marys’ box where their captain, Victor Hoat, was practically snarling at each new play.

 _Keep clear tonight_ , she assessed in half a heartbeat.

Hoat wasn’t strong, or fast, or even all that skilled with maneuvers, but he was strategic and unpredictable, with a streak as spiteful as the rest of them. And right now he was _very_ pissed off.

West Eros High had just scored. Saint Mary’s was down 2-1.

“First line,” Coach Selmy ordered as the second line veered toward the box.

Brienne was already up. She followed Jaime onto the ice, Loras quick on her heels, and the three of them burst toward separate grids on the offensive end as their defenders pushed through the gate.

The Bloody Marys’ first line was a ragtag group of players who shouldn’t have been able to coordinate a single play, but somehow they worked together. The defensemen, Gorge and Biter, were cumbersome on their skates, but nearly impossible to overcome once they were on you. Biter had earned his nickname in a game against Pentos, when he’d bitten a chunk out of a left wing and tried again on the ref who hauled him off the ice.

The Marys’ front line was almost as bad: a winger nicknamed ‘Fat Z’ who was solid enough to play defense, but brash enough to play forward; Tim, who could hook and spear a player right under a ref’s nose; and Victor Hoat, who was almost as underhanded as their coach, Ruthless Roose.

Brienne quickly evaluated their positions, taking stock of the puck, the play, and where Jaime and Loras had settled on the ice. They slipped into play almost as one. Down and back, down and back, and WEH had gained the advantage.

It could have been staged for a movie. The puck practically floated to her. Brienne trundled around Biter and Hoat to pass the puck to Loras, who evaded Gorge by skating him in circles. Loras jerked around as if to return the pass, and the Marys took the bait. Jaime was wide open when Loras flicked him the puck and swung around to block Tim from following. The defenders were on him, but Jaime slipped around them, maneuvering his skates with easy grace to slip the puck between the goalposts.

3-1, West Eros High.

Hoat slapped the ice in frustration. Jaime saluted him with a cheeky smile.

Brienne wanted to laugh. Jaime caught her eye and winked, and a smile nudged her lips despite her best efforts. She circled behind the net, stifling her mirth as Loras and Jaime skated back towards the bench. She watched them glide into neutral ice before moving to follow.

The sight of two Marys arrested her momentum. Hoat nodded sharply at Fat Z, and the sinister intent in his eyes raised hair down the back of Brienne’s neck. They moved toward their own gate, Hoat hanging back while Z edged left, skating slow. He seemed off somehow.

She skated forward, angling towards them as a precaution.

The heavyset forward veered sharply right, traversing the ice before she could so much as blink. Brienne felt a surge of protectiveness as she darted forward to stop him.

“Jaime!” she warned—too late.

He’d barely begun to turn when Z slammed into him, knocking his head into the glass and ducking back, letting Jaime lose control of his skates. Jaime fell hard and sprawled onto the ice, dazed.

Brienne checked Z so hard he rebounded off the boards, but he caught her arm and dug into the pad, dragging her into him as she struggled to stay upright. Her skates faltered as she shoved free; Z smirked as Hoat caught her from behind. She was stronger than him, but he had a better angle, and suddenly one of their defenders was there, binding her between them.

She struggled uselessly, preoccupied and anxious, as Z skated back to Jaime and stared down at him. Jaime was shaking his head, shifting on the ice, testing his limbs. A trickle of blood inched down his forehead, smearing against his faceguard with each sluggish motion.

Brienne tried to force her way to him, but Hoat had her left arm twisted behind her, pinning her to the defender on her right. She tried to check Hoat with her hip, but she couldn’t muster enough power to break free. The defender caught her hard in the mouth with his fist. She spat blood in his face. It hit him square across the cheek, so he backhanded hers. Her nose didn’t break, but blood leaked from the impact, dribbling down her chin and spattering onto the ice.

Then the refs were there, shouting at Hoat and his lackey, pulling them off her.

 _Not them,_ she wanted to say. _Get_ him _._

Z had stepped back from the fight, but Brienne knew with certainty that he was the only threat. When they wrestled Hoat away from her he looked angry, not defeated. His eyes were fixed on Jaime; something dark bubbled in the twist of his mouth.

Z moved so quickly Brienne barely saw his skate. Jaime had no time to react before the blade sliced the padding on his outstretched arm, pressing all of Fat Z’s weight onto the exposed limb. Jaime screamed, low and strangled.

She heard a sharp crack, and for one silly moment she thought Jaime’s stick had caught under him. But his arm was bent and his stick was not, and Jaime’s face was contorted in a grimace that made her want to cry.

 _Stupid_. She shoved away the childish urge. Crying wouldn’t mend his arm, and it wouldn’t pay back the monsters who had broken it.

She lashed out, pushing past the referees as they rushed to her teammate and attacking Victor Hoat with every ounce of the rage and horror twisting her insides to daggers. The rink had erupted into chaos. From the corner of her eye she saw Loras tear into one of the Marys’ defenders. Sandor had escaped the box; he was laying about their second line with animalistic fervor.

Brienne managed to rip off Hoat’s helmet; he howled as it snagged his ear, leaving a bloody streak down the side of his face. He caught the front of her jersey and yanked as if he meant to rip it off her, but she used his weight against him and elbowed him hard in the mouth.

“Bithch,” he snarled around a mouthful of blood.

She growled and lunged at him.

“Enough!”

She dimly recognized Coach Selmy’s authoritative tone, but it wasn’t until her skates left the ice that she realized he was yelling at her. Brienne was strong, stronger than half the guys in the league, but the arms trapping her hands against her ribs left her immobilized.

 _Traitor_ , she thought unfairly as Coach Selmy shot her a hard look and strode across the ice to Jaime’s stretcher.

The EMTs had taken his helmet. As they hauled him into the air his head twisted sharply in her direction, bracing against the pain. A bloody lock of hair drooped across his forehead. It was so grimy she could barely tell it was blonde.

Jaime seemed suddenly powerless in a way Brienne had difficulty comprehending.

Shame flooded her, and crushing worry. She watched anxiously as the paramedics carried him from the ice. They disappeared behind a support beam, and when the stretcher emerged on the other side Jaime’s stepbrother was clinging to it with white fingers. Brienne didn’t blink until the heavy arena doors echoed closed above the dull roar of the crowd.

Gregor had eased her back onto the ice when she’d stopped struggling, but she felt too tired to move. She stood unblinking in the middle of the rink, watching players and officials trudge back to their positions. Words like “laceration” and “bone shards” drifted over the speakers, with a string of numbers she couldn’t quite grasp. Brienne felt numb as they announced a resume in play.

Coach was back, quietly assessing the disarray of her uniform, the bruise forming on her jaw, her bloodied lip.

“Back in the box, Brienne,” he said gruffly.

Loras nudged her forward, and Brienne passed behind the glass and dropped onto the bench beside her teammates. By the time the puck dropped, she had reached a conviction.

 _They will_ _not score again._

They didn’t. All their underhanded plays and brutal fouls made no difference. Coach Selmy dictated line changes with a stony expression, Arya grew fierce over missing the action, and the Clegane brothers were beasts no matter the provocation.

But Brienne was impenetrable. By the final buzzer, every player on the Marys’ bench knew the exact second Hoat lost them the game. She left her splintered stick on the bench and followed Arya to the locker room, feeling vindicated.

It was a hollow victory, all the same.

Brienne took her time undressing, dabbing antiseptic onto her injuries, letting the lukewarm shower rinse away sweat and blood and lingering resentment. Arya was long gone by the time she pulled her fading hockey sweatshirt over her wet, frizzing hair and stuffed her gear into her bag. She had hoped to emerge into an empty arena, but the crowd had lingered, caught up in the fervent school pride that surged whenever a player got injured.

Brienne ducked her head and tried to make herself small.

Cersei stood alone by a pillar, eying the players with disgust. When Brienne trudged past, her expression turned positively baleful. She curled her lip, fixing her stepbrother’s teammate with an unforgiving stare. Brienne’s chest squeezed painfully, pushing nausea into the hollow of her stomach. She clutched her bag until the strap cut into her palm, looking anywhere but at the beautiful blonde with accusation in her cool green eyes.

Her eyes skirted the arena, coming to rest on a familiar form. Her shoulders braced without her permission.

She hadn’t known her dad was coming—he’d only made it to one game all season—but she could only imagine what he thought of her. Tonight’s violent outburst would be “concerned discussion” fodder for weeks.

“Need a ride?” Loras sauntered in front of her, blocking her view. White knight wasn’t his typical look, but when he wore it he wore it well.

 _Yes_.

“I, um– ” Brienne swallowed hard, craning her neck to find her dad again. “No. I should probably ride with my dad.”

Loras rolled his eyes and moved left, insinuating himself into her line of sight. “Brie. Stop being a martyr.”

“It’s fine,” she insisted, biting her lip when her dad noticed her staring. He frowned, small and dissatisfied, and her heart clenched.

“We won’t take no for an answer,” Margaery announced, slipping up beside her brother and threading her arm through his. She glanced over her shoulder, a small smile playing at her lips.

Brienne made to look, but Margaery tugged Loras forward, and Brienne had to maneuver her gear to avoid clocking them.

“You won us the game.”

Brienne shuffled backwards, creating distance between her pounding pulse and Margaery’s earnest lie. The misdirected praise had revived that sick feeling from Cersei’s wordless accusation.

“You deserve a few minutes to bask in the success,” Margaery insisted. And she caught Brienne by the arm, too, sweeping her towards the exit.

Brienne found her friend’s eyes over his sister’s head. He shrugged as if to say, _What can you do?_

“Shouldn’t we check on Jaime?” she protested. Almost before the words were out she added, “Has anyone heard from Tyrion?” She chewed her lip, resisting the impulse to look back at Cersei.

Margaery’s thumb soothed the worn fabric at Brienne’s elbow. “They’re updating the students via text alert.”

Brienne got the feeling it shouldn’t be news.

“He’s probably out for the season.” Loras grimaced. “We’re basically screwed.”

Loras admitting he couldn’t singlehandedly win every game was like the Marys’ coach raising his voice: completely unheard of.

“What’d you hear?” she blurted.

“Nothing,” Margaery reassured. She pursed her lips at her brother.

“ _You_ were there,” Loras added. “You saw the crazy angle of his arm.”

She had. She’d been trying to unsee it ever since.

“Don’t dwell,” Margaery instructed. “It won’t do Jaime any good to drive yourself crazy.”

The siblings exchanged a look. Brienne didn’t even try to decipher it.

“Loras and I are going out,” Margaery said, turning to smile at Brienne. “You should come with.”

“I can’t— ” she started, but Loras cut her off.

“You can’t sit at home every night, Brienne.”

“My dad— ”

“Can fuss at you when you get home.”

“There’s— ” she cast about for a good excuse, “—cotillion in the morning.”

If Margaery was surprised, she didn’t show it. “You may as well get to know the girls you’ll be stuck with,” she pointed out.

Brienne made one last attempt. “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Margaery glossed over her paper-thin excuse. “I miss my dashing brother. I hardly see him anymore. And someone needs to help me distract him, or he’ll spend the whole night sulking about his boyfriend missing his game.” She tucked in close to Loras, pecking him affectionately on the cheek.

Brienne could only describe Loras’s expression as pouting. He was supposed to be her teammate, her comrade-in-arms, but all the camaraderie in the world couldn’t squeeze between Margaery Tyrell and getting her way.

“We’ll stop for milkshakes,” Margaery insisted, tugging her brother and Brienne into the brisk January air. “Everyone will be post-gaming at King’s Landing.”

Brienne followed slowly, dragging her feet. Margaery glanced over her shoulder, flashed a coy smile, and pushed Loras ahead so she could fall into step with his teammate. The cheerleader’s sweet expression couldn’t mask the determination sparking in her bright brown eyes.

Brienne’s lip had swollen fatter than her thumb, she could practically feel her cheekbone purpling, and her knuckles were split in half a dozen places, but for half a breath Margaery Tyrell was the most terrifying thing she’d ever seen.

“It would be a shame for us to miss it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feedback is always welcome.


	5. while you wonder (what else you're doing wrong)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who's been leaving comments as I clean this up. I know I got a little distracted there for a while, but I hope to get back on track so I can move on to fresh projects. 
> 
> And, ahh, thank you to everyone who voted for me in the J/B fic contest! It's honestly unfathomable to me that I won, but y'all's support means _so_ much. I can't even express how much your regard has kept me going. I know it's a tough time for J/B shippers, but ~~stubborn denial~~ ~~justified rage~~ AU will get us through.

 

When Brienne’s alarm clock blared through her pleasantly hazy dreams, she seriously considered ripping out the cord and going back to bed. She could hear her dad padding around the kitchen, making breakfast to pretend he wasn’t hovering. The smell of his morning coffee had long since faded.

Margaery’s chipper farewell crept with the sunlight through the curtains. “Let me know if you’re running late,” she’d called as Brienne clambered from the car in a burst of bitter night air. “I’ll swing by and pick you up.”

It had probably sounded less threatening in Margaery’s head.

Brienne sat up, rubbing bleary eyes. Margaery and Loras had kept her out until well after midnight. Her head still pounded with the tension of making awkward small talk.

_And_ , she admitted to herself, _I was up half the night freaking out about Jaime_.

Margaery’s promised text alerts had been no help at all. Sporadic updates like, _‘WEH’s star forward suffered minor head trauma,’_ and, _“Jaime Lannister moved from OR to recovery,”_ had done nothing for Brienne’s nerves. Margaery must have noticed, because she’d clicked off her phone after the fifth interruption in as many minutes.

“There’s no substitute for beauty sleep,” she’d said, ushering Brienne from the booth. “We want to be fresh and alert for our welcome brunch.”

The brunch was anything but welcome. Brienne had agreed to cotillion in the eleventh hour, and the disaster at the hockey game had only compounded her doubts. If it weren’t for the fact that Cersei was supposed to be there, Brienne might have skipped the brunch to do homework.

_You aren’t going to approach her_ willingly _, are you?_ her sense of self-preservation objected.

Brienne steeled herself and climbed out of bed. Downstairs, she found her dad tending the stove, humming an old tune as he flipped pancakes.

“Morning,” she mumbled, sliding onto the stool by the door.

She scraped a fleck of dried soup from the counter with her thumbnail, staining the skin beneath it a sickly yellow. Her dad had been in bed when she’d gotten home last night. She wondered how long he’d waited up for her.

“Morning,” he replied. He flipped something in the skillet and resumed his humming.

Brienne took a minute to glance around the kitchen and felt guilty for her reticence. Fluffy eggs were piled high on a piece of her mom’s old china, bacon lay in perfect strips on a crystal serving tray, and milk shimmered through beads of condensation in a glass pitcher she didn’t recognize.

Something thick and heavy lodged in her throat. She tried to dislodge it with a casual tone. “You know this is a brunch thing, right?”

He looked so pleased with his creation that she almost didn’t tell him, but her dad only shrugged. “You know you’ll be too nervous to eat.” He slid a plate in front of her.

He was right, of course. Even now, in the safety of their kitchen, the warm, golden pancakes looked flat and unappetizing. The eggs turned sour on her tongue.

She swallowed a mouthful and smiled as convincingly as she could. “You didn’t have to do all this,” she mumbled around the bits of dry food that clung to her tongue.

He brought her a bottle of water, which she gratefully gulped down.

“Neither did you,” he acknowledged.

Brienne looked away. She didn’t deserve his faith in her.

“I’ve gotta go,” she told him, scooting toward the door.

“One for the money.” He handed her a paper plate: bacon stacked on a piece of dry toast. “Two for the show.” He waited for her to balance the plate before handing her a tall glass of milk.

She knew the food would go stale on the front seat, but Brienne chugged the milk, ignoring her queasy stomach. Her dad had been soothing her with cold milk since she was five and she skinned her knee teaching herself to rollerblade. This morning the comfort was something she sorely needed.

“Thanks,” she said, letting the _clink_ of the glass on the counter chip away some of her anxiety. “I’ll see you later.”

 

* * *

  

Cotillion events were traditionally held in the West Eros Country Club. Brienne had only been inside the clubhouse twice: last year when her dad had needed a date for a work party and in elementary school for a sports banquet. She’s spent both nights camped in the bathroom—which could hardly be called that since it included dressing alcoves and an informal sitting room.

The country club was much scarier in daylight. Everything dripped ivory and gold, walls lined with intricate décor that seemed altogether too fragile. There was an openness to the halls, too, airy sunlight catching shimmering motes that danced through the air.

Even the _dust_ looked delicate.

_It’ll be fine_ , Brienne told herself, peeking down corridors and into doorways as she tried to remember where the ballroom was. It took a bit of wandering before she heard the low babble of voices bleeding through the ivory wallpaper. One deep breath, and she pushed through a service door before she could psyche herself out.

She wished she’d taken a second to look first.

Or better yet, to think for half a second when she rolled out of bed that morning. Everyone in the room wore some sort of dress, structured fabric in cream or lilac or baby pink. Brienne had grabbed the first outfit in her closet: jeans, a t-shirt, and an oversized cardigan.

_Underdressed_ , she thought bleakly. _Of course_. The sarcasm fell flat, even in her head.

She swallowed hard and forced her feet forward, veering far away from the smiling college girl handing out brochures. She shuffled awkwardly past a trio of inductees, but instead of pointing her in the right direction, they stifled giggles and went back to their conversation. They probably thought that she was manual labor, stacking chairs or something. It wouldn’t be the first time Brienne had been expected to move furniture at a social function.

But there were waiters, their trays laden with flaky pastries and fizzy drinks in champagne flutes. Waiters seemed safe enough. She was pretty sure they were paid not to laugh at her.

She was just about to ask one what exactly she was supposed to be doing when she spotted Cersei by the stage. The pretty cheerleader was speaking with an equally pretty woman who—judging from her easy poise on what should be deadly heels—had to be a cotillion coach.

_Suck it up_ , Brienne told herself. _It will only be worse later._

She willed her feet to move. They dragged at first, like her body wanted to convince her brain that she was walking into a disaster, but she refused to veer off her collision course. She wove around clusters of poised women and giggling debutantes, willing her breath steady.

It seemed like half the morning before she reached the stage, halting so abruptly she was sure Cersei would snicker. But Cersei and the woman ignored her, leaving Brienne to rock sideways on her heels, wondering how to breach the conversational wall.

Her heart fluttered erratically, pushing air through her veins. She wondered if she might pass out.

“Cersei,” she interrupted, her words as weak as her will.

The look Cersei turned on her was scathing. She flipped her hair over her shoulder and crossed her arms, stealing Brienne’s thunder. The way she cocked her hip was one part boredom, three parts ‘stop wasting my time.’

“H– hi,” Brienne recovered. “Um. I was just– How’s Jaime?”

Cersei sniffed, paying no mind to the sharp eyes of the cotillion coach. “Fine, considering you got his arm maimed for him.”

“Cersei,” the woman warned, but Cersei merely shrugged.

“Well, she did.”

The woman raised a meaningful, well-groomed eyebrow, but Cersei ignored the admonition.

“Our family portrait is ruined this year.” Her nose crinkled almost imperceptibly. “That cast is ungodly. And– ” her eyes widened, dark eyeliner dramatic against her golden skin, “– _prom pictures_.”

“He’ll look good anyway.”

Brienne almost couldn’t believe the words had come from her. They’d tumbled out of her mouth before they’d registered on her tongue.

For once, Cersei seemed to agree with her. Her center of gravity shifted, rocking her dangerously forward on her heels. Her eyes widened, all green, then narrowed until Brienne could barely see the color through her lashes.

“Cersei, Olenna has your notes for the introduction.”

Cersei didn’t move until a firm hand on her elbow nudged her forward. She straightened deliberately, rolled her eyes, and flounced off, making sure to glower at Brienne as she passed.

The woman’s eyes followed her until she disappeared behind a group of older women.

“I’m sorry. It’s been a stressful night for all of us.”

“You’re Jaime’s mom,” Brienne blurted. She felt stupid for not realizing it earlier.

Joanna Lannister turned cool green eyes on her, and Brienne blushed. The woman’s mouth quirked ever so slightly. “I suppose I am, for all the good it’s done him.”

“I just– ” Brienne wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that. “How is he?”

Mrs. Lannister smiled; this time it touched the worry in her eyes. “The doctors say he’ll heal.”

Brienne opened her mouth to ask again, and the woman rolled her eyes.

“Twenty-seven sutures and a comminuted fracture. They inserted a metal rod to hold the pieces together. The procedure took nearly three hours.” She paused, and for a moment her eyes were distant.

Brienne hissed a breath through her teeth, wincing for Jaime, for the horror his mother had faced.

Mrs. Lannister must have heard, because she was back, as unruffled as ever. “Oh, and a mild concussion.”

“He’s out for the season?” Brienne asked, praying for all she was worth.

“At least,” his mom corrected crisply. “As I’ve already informed your coach.”

“But – the scouts.” She bit her lip, feeling helpless. “How’s he going to get signed?”

If any of them had the skills to play pro, it was Jaime. And he _wanted_ it.

Joanna Lannister looked at her, the green of her eyes shifting and deepening until Brienne could imagine they belonged to her son. “You’re the only one who’s asked me that.”

Brienne tried to still her quickening heart, wondering how anyone could _avoid_ asking that.

_Is that not an okay thing to say?_

“Sorry,” she mumbled.

Joanna studied her for a long moment, like she was some strange creature that escaped classification. Brienne shifted uncomfortably.

“Regardless.” The woman drove away the silence with one wave of her manicured hand. “Jaime’s tough. He’ll handle it.”

“Of course,” Brienne said softly.

_But how?_

She couldn’t find an answer.

Joanna pressed her lips, giving Brienne another once-over. Then she snapped her fingers and held out her hand.

Brienne blinked at her. She wondered for a brief second if she’d forgotten something else for the brunch, apart from the dress and heels and nice hair. The woman waited for her to figure it out, hand extended while Brienne scrubbed sweaty palms down the rough fabric of her jeans. Her fingers caught on a familiar, bulky rectangle in her front pocket.

She fished her phone free, checking with Mrs. Lannister for confirmation before cautiously handing it over.

“Here’s his number.” Manicured fingers moved deliberately across the keyboard. “He says you took a few punches for him; perhaps you’re woman enough to talk him out of this mood.”

The device felt heavy when she placed it in Brienne’s hand. She stared at it instead of slipping it back into her pocket. Her contact list was basically empty: Arya and Loras, Renly and Coach Selmy, her dad and a few emergency contacts. It wasn’t like she spent much time on the phone.

And now she had Jaime’s number, gift wrapped by his mother. It seemed a bit surreal.

Mrs. Lannister, it seemed, had nothing more to say. Brienne rarely had much to say, and her words had disappeared entirely. Together they created an awkward picture until Margaery swept through the tension with a well-placed smile.

“Mrs. Lannister, hello” she greeted smoothly, falling into place beside Brienne. “It means so much to us that you’re here. I know this is a difficult time for your family.”

“We’ll survive.” Joanna smiled politely, but she spoke with unassailable conviction. “We are Lannisters, after all.”

“Of course,” Margaery agreed with all the easy conversation Brienne lacked. “Your son isn’t West Eros High’s toughest player for nothing.”

That was a patent lie. Brienne was stronger, no matter how much Jaime rolled his eyes when she told him so. And to imagine anyone tougher than Sandor or Gregor Clegane was to dream up the stuff of nightmares.

Mrs. Lannister accepted the kind fabrication with a nod, excusing herself to the Junior League table. Margaery wasted no time in linking her arm through Brienne’s and weaving them through the empty tables.

“Mel and I switched your place card with Jane Westerling’s. You’re with us.”

She deposited Brienne next to Mel, who wore the only bit of color Brienne had seen all morning.

“Nice dress,” Brienne mumbled, mustering a small smile. She felt out of place despite the elegantly folded placard that announced _Brienne Tarth_ in flowing gold script.

“Pastels are the worst.” Mel looked at Margaery and shrugged, making it clear she meant the comment as a self-commentary. “Red’s a statement color.”

She leaned around the table, taking in Brienne’s appearance. Brienne braced herself for the inevitable.

“Cool tee. I love Imagine Dragons.”

Brienne knocked into her water glass, sloshing half its contents onto the lace tablecloth. Mel and Margaery pretended not to notice.

“Thanks.” Brienne sopped up the spill with her napkin, trying to work moisture back into her mouth. In her peripherals she could see dozens of delicate party dresses drifting in and out of the thin sunlight from the large bay windows. “I – uh – didn’t realize this was a dress-up thing.”

“They’re all dress-up things.” Margaery laughed, but not at her. “If I ever saw my grandmother in pants I’d cross myself.”

Mel nodded sagely. When it became clear that Brienne was totally lost, she explained, “Grammy Olenna’s le président de la cotillon.”

“She owns these things.” Margaery rolled her eyes affectionately.

“Oh.” Brienne wasn’t sure what else to say. “Okay.”

“We’ll talk you through it,” Margaery assured as the microphone crackled, pulling their eyes toward the stage.

Cersei Lannister stood in a cream and gold gown that—with the lights and the stage and the flawless smile—made her look like an actual angel, no joke.

She waited for everyone to settle in their seats, looking down at the crowd like the prom queen she was. “Ladies,” she greeted, once she’d commanded the undivided attention of the room. “Thank you for being here. Each of you– ” Brienne could have sworn those cutting green eyes pierced her, driving home Cersei’s next words, “– are unrefined and untaught.” Cersei’s eyes moved away to scan the room, searching for someone worthy of her attention. “But four months from now you will be intelligent, poised young ladies with the world at your feet.

“It is a difficult journey, but those are often the most rewarding. The accomplishments of the former debutantes in this room,” she smiled at the women seated by the bar, “are truly inspiring.” She emphasized her words with a hand to her heart. “I know I could never have accomplished such incredible personal success without their thoughtful guidance. Please join me in welcoming our Cotillion Director, Mrs. Catelyn Stark.”

Margaery read Brienne’s confusion. “Oh, Grandmother never speaks at welcome brunches.”

“It’s all up to the loyal underlings.” Mel grinned, tipping back an orange, fluted drink as Cersei exchanged pleasantries with Mrs. Stark onstage.

“I didn’t know Mrs. Stark was the director,” Brienne admitted.

“She’s scary skilled at networking,” Margaery whispered as Mrs. Stark began her welcome speech.

Cotillion, besides teaching dancing and deportment, apparently required a never-ending stream of lessons that would help Brienne become “a well-rounded woman.” Among them were interviewing, positive self-esteem, and academic achievement. Brienne found herself thinking that dance lessons might actually suck _less_ than the rest of cotillion.

“And so, on behalf of the West Eros Country Club, Junior League, and the National Cotillion League, welcome to our home.” She said the last bit with a teasing smile, gesturing the tables and tasteful decorations of the converted ballroom. Caterers arrived as if on cue, doling out platters until each table was laden with brunch delicacies that put Brienne’s breakfast to shame.

_There’s no way these girls eat food like that_ , Brienne thought, watching waiters stack plates onto tiered frames around their centerpiece. She looked down at her wide hips, supporting well-muscled abs and a small roll of fat.

The bulky shape in her jeans pocket caught her attention, distracting her from a spiral of self-doubt. Her fingers itched, digging into her pocket of their own accord to tug out her phone. She hid her phone beneath a dip in the tablecloth, tilting her palm so only she could see the screen. She couldn’t quite believe she’d really do it, but her fingers were already scrolling. Her heart was in her chest as she found _Jaime Lannister_ in her contacts list _._

**I bet you’re having more fun than me.**

She clutched her phone under the table. Her palms grew sweaty as she pretended to listen to Margaery and Mel dish about girls she didn’t know making their debut at last year’s ball. It seemed like forever before her phone buzzed lightly in her fist.

**I’m half-doped on painkillers, listening to Tyrion investigate legal recourse for hockey injuries.**

She smiled in relief, typed back: **I’m at cotillion.**

She hit send. Held her breath.

Jaime’s text came through before her finger moved from the green button.

**You win.**

**Author's Note:**

> As of March, it has been 1 year since I started this story. I cannot even tell you guys how much your support has meant to me. I know it's just a silly teen fanfic about a fictional couple, but this journey has been unexpectedly difficult and immeasurably rewarding. I've grown so much as a writer and as a person this year, and I'm sure there's plenty more to go. Thank you for supporting me through the process! 
> 
> I appreciate all the insights/flailing/critiques my readers have left me on AO3, tumblr, and J/B Online. I know I'll cherish any feedback you post here, but I've already been blessed beyond measure by your words. Thank you. ~~J/B fandom is the best fandom.~~
> 
>  
> 
> _*The beautiful banner is the work of the illustrious Ro Nordmann. The multi-talented Rellie has also drawn fanart for this fic, which I will link as soon as I scrounge up the source. ~~If you wanna toss it my way, girl, that'd be much appreciated.~~_  
>   
>  ETA: Thanks, Rellie. You're awesome! As is your artwork.


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